Getting Away With Murder
by A Deed Without a Name
Summary: Maybe Sam's been too lenient with his brother lately. Maybe he's indulged him too much. And maybe he likes the consequences. WARNING: Contains Wincest, stuffing, feeding, weight gain, chubby!Dean, and encourager!admirer!Sam


They've been at the buffet, all-you-can-eat, a gleaming field of steamer tables and chafing dishes, for well over an hour before it finally looks like Dean's ready to admit defeat.

He leans back in the booth, groaning. He's a little flushed, green eyes half-lidded and glassy, panting with his tongue sticking out over damp pink lips. The table in front of him's littered with empty plates stacked haphazardly on top of each other, discarded silverware, crumpled napkins.

"Can't believe you let me do that," Dean huffs, accusatory.

Sam plays dumb. "Do what?"

"_This." _Dean waves a hand almost lazily at the table. "Pig out."

"I wasn't even paying attention," Sam defends. "Sorry. I guess."

The check comes, and Sam goes ahead and pays for both of them at Dean's insistence that he "owes him" because this is "his fault." A busboy clears the table, and Sam's positive he can see his eyebrows rising just a little at all the dirty dishes, though he doesn't say anything. Then they have to stay a little longer so that Dean can digest. He claims he just needs a minute, but Sam suspects that he's not sure he can get up.

Dean's belt's undone and his jeans are open. He's got both hands on the bare flesh of his bloated stomach, rubbing to self-soothe as his breaths come in shallow. Sam can't even see much of it because of the table, not even when he leans forward and rests his weight on his elbows, hands folded. His cock lies plump on his thigh in the shallow groove between two muscles, and his pulse thunders in his groin every time he shifts his weight.

Finally, Dean heaves himself out of the booth with a grunt. There's still no hope of his belt and jeans closing, and he's got his tee tugged down over his belly and his flannel buttoned, like he's trying to hide it.

"Sure was good, huh?" he asks Sam as they leave. Sam's almost disappointed he's not waddling.

"You definitely seemed to enjoy it," Sam agrees with a pointed look at Dean's middle, then cocks his brows innocently when Dean shoots him a scowl.

Out in the parking lot, night falling all over the dusty turquoise-and-coral American Southwest, Sam beats Dean to the Impala and then turns to face him. He keeps his voice mild as he asks, "Want me to drive?"

Dean's reluctant. But then he burps (and makes no effort to stifle it), sighs, and hands over the keys before hitching his jeans a little higher on his ass. The denim's going tight and shiny in places.

"Yeah," he admits. "Guess that's probably a good idea."

They climb in. Dean's awkward about it, protective of a stomach that has to be tender, has the car rocking a little on its shocks as he settles into the passenger seat. Once he's in, Sam feels him glancing over at him as he sticks the keys in the ignition.

"What, not gonna say anything?" Dean wants to know, voice a little dry. "Else?"

Sam plays dumb again. "What're you talking about?"

"C'mon." Dean beckons with one hand, the other resting on the curve of his belly, and swallows a burp. "I'll give you a free pass. Let's just get it over with."

Sam twists the keys and the engine, reliable as it's been for his entire life, turns over. "I'm not saying anything. I don't have anything to say."

Dean starts to say something else, face a little sour when Sam glances over at him, but Sam cuts him off as the Impala's purring fills its metal-and-leather body. "It's totally fine, Dean. It's really not a big deal."

He goes to put the car in reverse, then stops and looks at his brother again. Leaning over the barely-there space between the two of them on the bench seat, he kisses Dean. He gets a thrill out of it that hasn't faded yet and might not ever. He's still not used to being able to do that whenever he wants.

He touches him, too, just a brief pat to the stomach, gentle and affectionate. It's warm and tight and bloated, and Sam's dick twitches in the leg of his jeans.

"Let's just get back to the motel," Sam says when he breaks, leaving Dean gasping again. "You probably oughta hit the hay."

* * *

They're watching a movie in Dean's room. He just likes his bed better, swears up and down it's a million times more comfortable than Sam's traditional box-spring mattress, and on the rare occasion Sam puts his foot down, he spends the whole time whining about how his back is killing him or whatever. Sam's mostly stopped putting his foot down. He doesn't really mind hanging out in Dean's room.

Sam used to crave touch almost constantly. That's a constant he can remember stretching back over years and years, a burning desire for skin-on-skin contact with Dean, a thirst that was only rarely but blessedly slaked. There was a distance between them that only got wider as they got older, but then started to narrow again post-Stanford.

Things are different now. Same bed, same space. Their sweat and breath and spit mingles. This is what Sam wanted, although he had no idea how to ask for it before. Not that they talk about what they want and like even now, they are John Winchester's sons even on their best days, after all, but…things are definitely better than they used to be.

They had a big dinner tonight. Dean's a wonderful cook and he really went all out this time, going with a Mexican theme because he said he'd been craving it for days – "And none of that Taco Bell shit either, Sammy." Enchiladas, nachos, rice and beans, and then dessert, all of it heavily seasoned because the two of them both like their heat. Once again, John Winchester's sons.

Dean very clearly enjoys his own cooking, which he should. He tucked in heavy again and he's bloated overfull, belt and jeans once more splayed out to accommodate his temporary girth. They're like that a lot these days, Sam's noticed. Dean's laying comfortably against him, free arm around his broad shoulders, and Sam can feel the fullness and tautness of his brother's stomach against the jut of his own hip. Dean's hands smell like peppers and his breath like honey and grain.

It's not like Sam didn't eat his share. He's feeling plenty full himself. But he didn't bring a plate full of dessert to the bedroom to keep eating, like Dean did, and he's not hitting the beer nearly as hard, either.

Dean finishes, and then burps. He sets his empty plate aside, and his latest bottle, and Sam can feel what's inside him shifting with his movements. He settles back down next to Sam once everything's cleared away.

"…oof." Dean grunts.

When Sam looks at him, Dean's got a hand on his belly, and blinking. He looks so content he's nearly stunned.

"You okay?" Sam frowns even as his semi perks up further.

"Ooh, yeah," Dean assures him. "I really outdid myself tonight." He grins at Sam, and then burps again. "I'm just…kinda starting to wonder if I'm not overdoing it, too. Y'know?"

Sam shifts, and he'll grudgingly admit that it's nice the mattress doesn't creak, or jostle Dean. "You want me to get you something? Uh, Alka-Seltzer? Ginger ale? Might have some Pepto left over from that time with the truck stop sushi…"

"Well." Dean smirks a little, looking up at Sam, and casually continues: "If we're being honest, what I _really _want's another beer. And some more of those sopapillas I made." Yet another burp. "They turned out good, don't you think?"

"Yeah, they did," Sam agrees, and then slips out from under Dean's arm, scooting down to the end of the bed and going around to his side. He starts gathering up bottles and the plate he had, then pauses and glances up at him. "How many you want?"

That just about stalls Dean out. He blinks again. "You serious?"

Sam straightens up, arms full of porcelain and glass. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know, you don't…do this." Dean waves a hand vaguely. Maybe it's the alcohol that makes him add, "Normally, no offense, but you're kind of a nag, man."

Sam winces, though he tries not to show it.

"Well," he starts, shrugging and making everything he's holding _clink_, "maybe I'm trying to be a better brother here. And boyfriend." He _loves_ that word. It terrifies him to say it out loud, and he also can't get enough of it. Dean's eyes crinkle every time it comes out of him, laugh lines, crow's feet, so it has the same weight for him. "So what d'you want on the sopapillas? Uh, honey, whipped cream, chocolate sauce…?" What else goes on them? "Powdered sugar? Ice cream?"

"All of the above." Dean grins at Sam, and there's something in the expression that not only expects him to put the kibosh on that, but excuses it. Sam's being pushed, like he has been so many other times in the past by both Dean and other people. And he's conflicted. Part of him demands he set his feet and push right back, and another suggests he give in.

He goes with one before he can, as usual for him, think about it too hard and ruin everything.

The end of the night comes a few hours later. By that time, Dean's worked his way entirely through all the sopapillas he made. Each one was drenched heavily in sugar. Sam got creative, using up quite a few of their sweeter condiments (chocolate sauce and honey and whipped cream, like he suggested and Dean agreed to, maraschino cherries). Dean's polished off the better part of another six-pack, too. He's happily stuffed to the gills.

Dean's stretched out on his bed, having long since slipped into a food coma. His overstuffed belly mounds up into the air, totally free of clothing, and the last Sam checked, there was a blissful expression on his sleeping face. He's snoring loudly, occasionally belching.

Sam's laying next to him, head pillowed on Dean's bicep. He's sleepy and content, almost ready to drift off himself, and he's got a hand on Dean's stomach. He can feel it gurgling.

Sam's not sure why he presses on it just a little. Dean grunts in his sleep, then puffs out a quiet little burp. There's some give to his middle. Like there's still room inside. Sam wonders if Dean wanted more and just didn't tell him.

Maybe he ought to offer him more the next time something like this happens. Actually, he definitely should. Even if Dean says he's full, protests he doesn't need any more, Sam'll put more in front of him, let that decide it.

He just wants to make sure that Dean gets enough.

* * *

Dean's bent over, peering into one of the refrigerator's, when Sam comes into the bunker's kitchen. His ass is obviously on full display. They tend to wear loose, baggy clothes, easy to move around in while hunting…but his jeans are looking pretty tight these days. His ass has rounded out significantly, not to mention widened, and every curve is on display in denim Sam can almost imagine he hears straining.

Sam's not that kind of guy. Not usually, at least. He's had fairly good control of himself since high school, and he's in his thirties – he should not be popping boners at the drop of a hat. But coming in and stopping dead, the view he can't look away from has him stirring in his own jeans. Like he's a teenager all over again, trying to hide too-long, too-skinny limbs behind oversized hoodies and floppy bangs. No idea he hates Dean because he wants to be fucked by him.

"God_damn_," Dean says admiringly when he hears Sam come in. "I oughta have you go grocery shopping more often."

"What d'you mean?" Sam leans on the island, hiding his predicament behind it. His own jeans are still plenty loose and baggy, but he doesn't want to risk any good-natured, brotherly ribbing.

Dean straightens up and indicates all the junk food in the fridge, grinning. Cheez Whiz, Cool Whip, hot dogs, bologna, chip dip, cookie dough. "You done good, kid."

Sam scoffs out a laugh at that, folding his arms. "Oh, done I?"

"You sure done." Dean closes the fridge and goes over to a cabinet over the counter, flipping it open and reaching for a bag of chips. His shirt lifts. He's not wearing a belt and the waistband of his jeans is digging into him, making a shelf. _Muffintop._ He must've just barely gotten them buttoned, the way that they're sinking into the doughy, freckled flesh of his love handles.

Sam's breath catches.

Dean's been softer for a good decade now. Stomach maybe not perfectly flat, middle a little thicker than it was when he was in his early twenties, tiny bounce to his thighs. But nothing like this. This is new. Past several months new.

Dean tears the bag of chips open. As he stuffs a handful into his mouth, Sam swings around the island and comes up behind him. He grabs his hips and pressed himself against him, and Dean jumps. Sam's sure he can feel his erection on his ass, which is pillowy against it.

"Whoa, there," Dean mumbles past a full mouth. He turns to face Sam, breaking his grip. His rounded belly bumps against Sam's taut one. "Somebody's frisky."

"Are you hungry?" Sam asks. Dean takes a second, then shrugs.

"Yeah, I could probably eat."

"Then let's go into town." Sam puts his hands on Dean's hips again, fingertips pressing into the meat of them. "I'll buy you a burger. Two. Plus chili fries, a-and a milkshake. From your favorite place."

Dean's eyes widen and he starts to say something, but Sam's not done.

"And then I wanna suck you off." He's sure he's dripping into his boxer briefs. A wet spot's going to show up on the front of his jeans before they get to the restaurant. "In the car, preferably. 'Cause I'm not sure I'm gonna be able to wait 'til we get home."

Sam's hands rise as he talks. To the love handles Dean's jeans are strangling, and then to his stomach. He only lets them stay there for a second before he goes up to Dean's chest. Control. Delayed gratification. He's a big believer in it.

Dean laughs, and it hitches a little in that excited way he's got, the way Sam used to think was annoying as hell whenever he was going after a girl. He knows why now.

"Well. No way I can say no to an offer like that," Dean proclaims. "Not sure what's gotten into you lately, Sammy, but lemme say – I sure as hell like it."

He goes to roll the top of the bag of chips down, to stow them away. Sam stops him.

"Go ahead and bring those," he says. "I'll drive."

* * *

Sam's been down in Lebanon for most of the day, on a long-overdue trip to replace a lot of his workout equipment and clothing. He's kind of rough on it, especially when they're not hunting, which they haven't been for a while. He's in a Footlocker, examining running shoes (he's partial to Nike but has some ethical concerns), when he gets a text from Dean.

_Get home NOW. Need you_

Sam might as well have taken a shotgun blast to the stomach right then. Instinct kicks in. One second he's weighing arch support against slave labor, and the next he's tearing out of the store and sprinting for his car. He texts Dean as he gets the engine started, demanding to know what's going on and what he should expect, and when that doesn't work, he calls him. Again and again and again as he drives back to the bunker, going at least fifteen over the whole way. Dean doesn't answer and Sam's insides are a mess.

He parks haphazardly in the garage, only barely managing not to ding the Impala. He knows that if he did, he'd have more to worry about from Dean than from whatever's in the bunker with him…unless Dean's already dead. Sam can't let himself think about that as he charges into the bunker.

He doesn't know what to expect, so he brings in a gun, tucked into the waistband of his jeans, a machete in his right hand, an angel blade in his left. He sweeps the entryway, the library, staying low and only occasionally risking calling Dean's name, voice rough and tense. He doesn't get a response, doesn't hear anything at all, in fact, until he gets to the hall that holds their rooms. There's a low moan.

It comes from Dean's room. Sam goes straight for it.

He takes a second outside the closed door, listens. There's only labored breathing, some other strange noises, more moaning. Dean's hurt and Sam can only hope he's alone in there. He opens the door and swings himself in, muscles iron-cable taut, weapons raised. He looks around, sees Dean on the bed.

After a second, Sam blinks, and lowers his knives.

There are no monsters. No wounds Sam can see, either. But Dean is… Sam swallows.

He's fuller than Sam's ever seen him before. His stomach's massively swollen, with his shirt ridden all the way up to his pecs. He's heaving in tiny little pants, his tongue poking out between his full lips, forest-colored eyes half-lidded and glazed over. His face is flushed and his arms are up by his head, thick fingers half-folded in on his palms.

Dean's surrounded by what's practically an ocean of debris. Empty packages, wrappers, cartons, plates, bowls, littering the bed, nightstand, and desk, spilling over onto the floor. Sam kicks some out of the way as he crosses the room, puts all his weapons down on Dean's dresser. Then he turns to face his brother. His cock's already perking up.

Sam knows he ought to be mad. On some level, he thinks he actually might be. Mostly, though, he's shocked. And…horny. Really, really horny.

He goes to the bed, gingerly takes a seat on the edge. Dean groans. Sam spends a few seconds just taking him in, eyes running from Dean's perfectly-gelled hair to his sock-covered feet, before tentatively asking, "You okay?"

It's a stupid question, which he knows as soon as he asks. Dean doesn't call him on it, though.

"I…overdid it." Dean lets out a burp that a hiccup interrupts, then winces. "C-can't even move, Sammy."

Another stupid question rolls out of Sam: "Are you sure?"

Dean glares at him through his slitted eyes. God, he's got long lashes; always has. Then he makes a big show of struggling to sit up which, of course, doesn't get him anywhere. His enormous belly wobbles just a little with his efforts, and sweat pops out on his skin, mirroring his freckles. He's sucking wind by the end of it, moaning and hiccupping as he flops back down.

Sam's rock-hard in his jeans, has to spread his thighs a little to accommodate it. He swallows with a mouth and throat gone suddenly dry. "Sorry." He palms himself, pressing the heel of one hand to the bulge to try and give himself just a little bit of relief. "So…you were still in bed when I left…" Not unusual these days, even though Dean used to be an early riser. "When exactly did…this happen?" Sam gestures to pretty much everything in the room.

"Woke up not too long after you took off," Dean answers testily.

"Were you eating the whole time I was gone?"

"Yeah," Dean admits after a second. "Basically." And now Sam's full-on grinding his hand into his groin, imagining Dean gorging himself for hours on end. "I…look, you're gonna get pissed at me for this, I can just feel it."

"What?" Sam rasps, voice suddenly husky.

"I actually ate some more. After I realized I was in trouble." Dean puts a forearm over his eyes. "After I texted you."

"Are you _serious_?"

"I still had some candy left!" Dean snaps back. He takes his arm off his eyes and turns his head to look at Sam, and he's defensive, yeah, but there's something…defiant in his expression, too. Almost smug. _Look what I did_. "Look, dude, I'm – " A very loud belch, chased immediately by a hiccup, interrupts him. " – _fully _aware I fucked up." Sam almost groans. "You gonna help me or not?"

The entitlement is startling. Sam imagines he can feel precome welling on his tip.

"What d'you want me to do, Dean? Feed you more?"

"_Fuck_, no."

Sam kicks off his boots, climbs fully up onto the bed. He has to sweep a lot of garbage out of the way to do it, and finds himself rolling his eyes. Dean's always been kind of a slob but this is ridiculous. Soon as he's…deflated some, Sam's gonna make him clean all this up.

Just the idea of Dean waddling around the room, still stuffed, groaning and bitching and struggling to bend over to clean up his mess, has Sam leaking a steady stream. He tries to focus on the situation at hand as he examines Dean's stomach, and honestly, that's not too difficult. It's definitely attention-getting.

"I might have an idea," Sam tells Dean before he puts a hand on his belly.

Dean flinches at his touch at first, tensing up, but when Sam starts to very gently massage, he quickly relaxes. A contented groan slips out of him and his eyes fall all the way closed. As Sam presses, he notices that his stomach is much more taut than usual.

Sam starts using both hands, pressing harder. Just trying to do as good a job as he can. In search of a better angle, he winds up straddling Dean's thighs, which are soft against his ass. Dean's belly gurgles and Sam rubs away cramps as soon as they appear under his fingers. His breathing's evened out. Sam's aching hard and it feels like Dean's in the same boat.

Dean's jeans are practically painted onto him, as Sam sees when his hands roam down to his waistband. Sam drops his head, mouth falling open against the skin of Dean's middle. It's soft where it isn't furrowed by scars. The taste of salt blooms on Sam's tongue when he licks. He kisses, nuzzles, keeps massaging, and Dean lets out a low, soft noise of pleasure.

A warm silence passes. There's nothing but the sounds coming out of Dean's stomach and mouth, and the wet noises made by Sam's own. The last time that he touched himself, the denim on the front of his jeans was damp. Dean's boxer briefs are soaked, too.

"I _really _needed a new pair of running shoes," Sam tells Dean eventually, quietly, voice husky. "And I didn't get to buy them today 'cause of you, so…hope you're happy."

Dean doesn't seem impressed. He definitely isn't remorseful.

"Running's for nerds," he declares, and Sam raises both eyebrows exaggeratedly even though Dean isn't looking at him right now.

Sam snorts.

Dean shifts a little, as if to push himself more firmly into Sam's hands, and then lets out a long, satisfied sigh. "Never saw the point in it, honestly. Or any kinda exercise. Outside hunting, obviously."

Sam rolls his eyes, then goes down again, pressing a kiss to Dean's navel. It's practically stretched flat. Dean reaches up, lazy, and thick fingers tangle in Sam's hair, combing along his scalp appreciatively. Sam scoots further up Dean's legs.

Their dicks are pressed together through layers of fabric and it sends a lightning bolt singing back through Sam's hips. His lean torso, is arched over Dean's bloated belly. He puts one hand on one of Dean's lovehandles (swollen out with food, like there was no more room in his gut and it had to find somewhere else to go as he kept eating) and gets the other up under his T-shirt. Just like his jeans, the fabric's plastered to him.

Sam cups one of Dean's pecs. They've started to balloon into something round and soft and it fills his palm.

"Yeah," he agrees, with an amused huff. "I can tell."

* * *

Sam's got his mouth on Dean's cock and his fingers up his ass, lube and saliva mixing on his balls. Dean opened up easily for him, as always, and Sam took him deep no problem. Practice makes perfect.

Dean's spread out on the bed, his bed, groaning appreciatively, pillows laid under his back and hips. They just finished dinner and dessert. Sam was sort of worried Dean might be too full for sex, but it quickly became apparent that they were both way too worked up to put it off.

Sam pulls his mouth, dripping and swollen, off Dean, and his fingers out of an entrance that seems to grasp at them, as if it doesn't want to let go. He straightens up so he and Dean can look at each other. He can feel that some of his hair's slicked to his cheekbone with a mix of bodily fluids.

"Don't wanna make you come before I even get inside you," he explains breathlessly. Dean snorts.

"What, you think I'm fourteen or something?" he demands, offended, but then backs down. "Probably is a good idea to get started, though."

Sam grabs Dean, squeezes his ass. There's a great shape to it, and plenty there to hold. They finally had to get him some new clothes and Sam was a little disappointed to realize he couldn't see the shape of him in his jeans anymore, but he also knows it's only a matter of time before they get tight, too. He slams into him. It always amazes him how tight Dean manages to stay.

After lots of trial and error, Sam knows exactly how to do this: keep things relatively gentle. "Relatively" being the key word, because if he doesn't pound Dean's ass, he's not gonna come.

Dean's legs, thighs deliciously thickened, wrap tight around Sam's waist when he starts moving. He lets go of his ass and puts both hands on his belly instead, kneading at the mass of sensitive flesh and the bloat of good food inside. They pick up a rhythm almost immediately.

"Gonna make me do all the work?" Sam pants, and Dean grins.

"Not like you ain't used to it."

As the pleasure builds, Sam takes one hand off his stomach and dredges his fingers through the chocolate sauce pooled thick on a nearby plate, then he brings it up to Dean's plump lips. Velvet drops fall onto his mouth. It isn't long before Dean's licking at it, and then pulling Sam's fingers into his mouth to suck them clean one by one.

Sam's eyelids flutter. He drags his other hand down the breadth of Dean's belly to his cock, grabbing it and beginning to stroke. It's still spit-slick in Sam's hand. Dean's mouth almost seems to match the pulse of Sam's hips and hands.

When they come, it's simultaneous, and Sam's climax is like going over the edge of a waterfall. He pumps Dean full of his seed, and Dean's load spatters hot over Sam's hand and his own stomach.

Sam pulls out, floating on aftershocks, and they lie next to each other, getting their breath back, fingers tangled together. He kisses Dean, and he tastes sweet.

* * *

Yet again, they're on Dean's bed. Sam actually did suggest his for once, but Dean sort of threw a fit. And of course Sam gave in, rolling his eyes and hiding a smirk.

Sam's holding his phone above his face, watching an in-depth analysis of the latest _Game of Thrones_ episode on his phone, subtitles and a frown on. Dean's practically using Sam's body as furniture: his beat-up copy of _Player Piano_, spine long broken, is on Sam's chest, there's a bowl of Cheetos on Sam's stomach, and a liter bottle of Coke wedged between his legs. Dean's also all but laying on him. Sam can feel the soft shapes of him against his own ridges of bone and muscle.

They're not exactly paying attention to each other, but they're close, comfortable. Sam's learned to treasure days like this, quiet and slow.

"Hey." Dean's voice is gravelly. Sam pauses the video and looks at him; Dean points to the bowl with orange-dusted fingers. It's empty.

"Well…what d'you want now?" Sam asks him, exasperated.

Dean's eyes slide to a bag of fun-sized candy bars on his bedside table. They've taken to keeping snacks in here, for convenience's sake. Sam snorts.

"You can definitely get those yourself."

"C'mon, Sammy," Dean pleads, a whiny note entering his voice. "Don't make me do that." He rests his head on Sam's shoulder, makes an exaggerated face. Sam thinks he's trying to mimic his "puppy dog eyes." "Way too tough. You gotta understand. I just…" He puts a hand dramatically to his heart. "…can't handle it."

"'Can't handle it?'" Sam repeats incredulously. "Uh…aren't you older? Seems like you used to hold that over my head all the time."

"Sure I'm older," Dean agrees. "But you're bigger."

Sam eyes Dean, the considerable bulk that's developed in the past few months. Pillowy chest, wide thighs, hips, ass – and not to even mention his stomach. "Yeah, I'm not sure that's the case anymore."

Dean scowls, offended. Sam finally relents, reaching over and grabbing the bag for him. Dean reaches for it, but Sam holds it away from his grasping hands, smirking. "No, hold on. Wouldn't want you to strain yourself or anything."

"It's your fault," Dean accuses. He shifts himself, moves the book, so he's practically laying on Sam's chest. He's heavy, but it's a soft weight. "Spoiling me rotten. Practically making me helpless over here. You really oughta know better."

"Oh, should I?" Sam asks mildly.

He unwraps the candy piece by piece, placing them individually in Dean's mouth. He takes it slow and Dean eats every one. By the way he looks at him, he wants him to feed him the entire bag. He's daring him to keep going and Sam has every intention of rising to that challenge.

Sam occasionally brings the soda up to Dean's mouth to wash down the candy, when it starts looking like he's having a tough time chewing. It almost feels like bottle-feeding a baby.

Sam's getting hard. Dean gets even closer to him than he was originally to make things easier on both of them. He sucks smears of chocolate and caramel off Sam's fingers, tongue and lips soft against the calluses, the scars, the swells of bone marking breaks.

By the time the bag's gone, Dean is panting and belching. When he realizes that he can feel the way his stomach's grown against him, Sam dribbles precome into his boxers.

Kissing Dean's a sugar rush. His belly's hot when Sam palms it. Under the generous and growing cushion of fat, there's still plenty of room. He's about to offer him more food when the kiss breaks, a syrupy string of saliva connecting their lower lips for a second afterwards, but Dean beats him to it.

"Need something salty now," Dean rumbles.

Sam just nods. He can't do anything but agree.

"Popcorn?" he suggests, trying to think of things it'd be easy for him to hand-feed Dean.

"Ooh, yeah." Dean's lids get heavy. "With extra butter."

Reluctantly, Sam disentangles himself from Dean. Walking a little awkwardly because of his throbbing erection, he goes to get his swollen, spoiled brother something else to eat.

Part of him loves the fact Dean's right, about this whole thing being his fault, and he has no one to blame but himself.


End file.
